The Second Betrayal (13 page)

Stalder was. He had that no-expression look down pat. "If you meet Mr. G's approval, you'll begin working today," he said.

The fact he'd just stated we'd be put to work immediately, without the option of choosing when we would start, set me on edge. It was what our team wanted, but I've never liked not having a choice.

But in undercover work, I wasn't always given much choice.

We followed Stalder to the back of the club and into the hallway. This time we headed for the closed doorway at the end of that long hallway. Stalder rapped on the dark wood twice then opened the door without waiting for an answer.

Probably because he was expected.

"Mr. G." Stalder motioned for Kerrison and me to go in before him. When we stood before a man seated behind a huge desk made of dark wood, Stalder gestured to the two of us. "Madame Alexis Johansen on the left and her

assistant, Ms. Chandra Elliot."

The barrel-chested, fifty-something man behind the desk didn't stand. He pointed to the chairs with his thick index finger as if we were a pair of truants there to see the principal. "Sit down."

I resisted the urge to look at Kerrison and instead made myself walk with confidence. I sat with as much grace as I could and relaxed my grip on my purse as I settled into the green and maroon-striped high-backed chair in front of his desk.

Stalder stood to the side of us with an almost military stance, but with his hands folded in front of him. Perhaps he had been in the military at one time.

The man behind the desk didn't waste time with any niceties. He said in Swedish to me, "I read in the report you're from Sweden."

"Stockholm is where I was raised," I replied, also in Swedish. "Although it has been many years since I moved to America."

"I've taken a look at your records." He switched to English and thumped a folder on his desk. "Paper doesn't mean a fucking thing. Give it to me in your own goddamned words."

No problem. I launched into our cover story, sticking tight to what we'd established. Kerrison and I had it down so well that it came easily to both of us. When it was her turn, Kerrison's additions to my story were as smooth as what I had told "Mr. G."'

After we'd finished, he observed us for a long time. "Hopefully the dickheads who work for me didn't screw this up,"

he said. "I'll hire you with a thirty-day probation to make sure you're not a couple of fuckups."

Yes,
I thought, but I kept my expression composed, doing my best to look like I'd never even questioned the possibility of not being taken on as madame at the Elite.

"I'll hire both of you, Alexis and Chandra." He used our first names as a way to make it clear we were his underlings while he remained Mr. G. No doubt about that.

His features became almost dark as he looked directly at me and continued. "Your salary will be smaller because I'm paying more for your assistant. You're fucking lucky I'm taking her on, too." He named a figure that was ridiculously low for a madame and one even lower for Kerrison. "Depending on how the girls do onstage and how much they bring in upstairs, you might earn bonuses. I expect you to work your asses off."

The way he looked at me made me feel like I'd better keep my mouth shut and not even pretend to haggle over salary

with him. "I understand, Mr. G." I added the
Mr. G
to make him feel important, so that he would think we knew our places just as clear as those dancing poles were. Gag. "We'll teach these girls so well that the club will be busier than ever."

His eyes looked like they contained jagged shards of gray flint as his gaze roved over Kerrison and me. "Anyone you have ties to is in our records now. If you think you want to leave, think twice and
discuss
it with me first."

He spoke in a way that sent a chill down my spine even though I'd expected it.

What few contacts were listed in my history were cooperatives paid to say they knew me in whatever fashion we

needed them to. They were carefully chosen and didn't know who the hell who Kerrison or I really was. But they liked the cash, and RED paid them well. Very, very well.

The cooperatives weren't in danger. This Beeff Giger would be roadkill before he had a chance to hurt anyone else.

We had no doubt we'd be bringing him down before he could touch any of our "friends" from our fictitious pasts. Not to mention we kept an eye on our cooperatives in case they did need our protection.

As for his veiled threat—which pissed me off even though I knew our cooperatives were safe—I acted the part of a

madame who didn't know how to respond. So I sat without moving and waited for him to speak.

Giger took his time letting his gaze rove over my body, especially my Victoria's-enhanced breasts. Then he took in

Kerrison's appearance. Of course her choice of attire made her look a lot more like eye candy than mine did. Plus she was a complete knockout to begin with, and she was playing it full-tilt.

He moved his gaze back to mine, his eyes somehow darker and dangerous enough that I almost sucked in my breath.

"Get to work.
Now"

Yes,
I thought again, only this time with a feeling of triumph.
We're in.

I'd expected Giger's tone and his demand that we start tonight thanks to Stalder's earlier comment, so I handled my expression with no problem. Kerrison sat next to me with an equally calm look on her face.

"What would you like us to start doing first?" I asked.

"The handlers will bring the girls to you on the floor." Giger gestured toward Stalder. I'd almost forgotten the big blond guy was there. "Work on having the whores damned near fuck the poles. Make them look like they're fucking the clients just by looking at them."

"We're very good at that," I said, trying on a seductive smile when what I really wanted was to shove that titty pencil holder on his desk right up his ass.

"You fucking damned well better be." Giger's expression told me he'd have no compunction about taking out our

"friends" if we didn't come through.

All right. We were ready to play his game.
And
we'd beat him at it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bachmann, alias Hagstedt

The view of Lake Geneva from his home not far from Chateau d'Oex pleased Karl Bachmann. Cool satisfaction settled

in his chest as he smiled.

As he'd built his empire, he had purchased this seventeenth-century mansion with its extensive and prosperous summer vineyard. In the winter, when the ground was covered with snow as it was now, his ski chalet thrived. Downhill skiing on the Alpine glaciers of the canton of Vaud brought tourists from all over the world.

After touching a call button, he put his hands behind his back, his stance wide, and surveyed the Alps. He imagined that he could see the passengers being transported in the ski lifts operating from his extensive and luxurious ski chalet.

He insisted on only the best for his guests at his lodge, which catered to and allowed only the most exclusive clientele.

Karl's reflection in the glass caught his attention, and he smoothed one side of the sleek hair that his stylist maintained a healthy dark brown, keeping him looking closer to his early forties than just over fifty.

That and his model-fine but mature features, as well as his fit body, kept him popular with the socialites. He

maintained his physique by working out in the large gym in his mansion and had earned his black belt in karate by

bringing in a private martial arts instructor.

His wealth no doubt added to the attraction women felt toward him. That was fine with him. Whatever it took to catch the attention of the sexiest and richest women in Switzerland.

He had decided on occasion that he needed to own a couple of the young women he had met and had orchestrated

their disappearances. After he tired of them in his private home, he had arranged for the beautiful women to be sold in private auctions, another part of his lucrative business.

One of the girls he had introduced to the men who frequented one of the most popular amenities at his ski chalet.

Many elite members were aware of the maze of fetish rooms below the lodge. Those who were allowed to know about

that exclusive recreation paid well for the women Karl's men had stolen from their homes across the globe, brought to Switzerland, and forced to be high-priced whores. Slaves, really.

The men especially enjoyed the socialites. Sometimes Karl would arrange to secure a particular woman whom a client

had brought to Karl's attention. Almost always a very young woman whom the client believed would be a fine addition to Karl's stable of sex slaves—and the man implied he would pay well to enjoy that particular woman. Frequently.

It was easy enough to arrange for the kidnapping of almost any woman.

His extraordinary business abilities, his eye for the best moneymaking opportunities, and his keen sense of enterprise and ambition had made him a billionaire.

Too bad he had business to attend to today or he would now be enjoying fine skiing from last night's snow. He could almost see his skis flashing in the cold sunlight, snow spraying in high arcs as he wove his way down the slope

through the fresh powder.

A man cleared his throat from behind him. He turned to face his butler, an aging man wearing black who had liver

spots on his hands and lines on the paperlike skin on his face. Was the butler now in his midseventies?

What did it matter? The old man was just a servant.

The butler's back was stiff, his posture rigid, his chin high. "You rang, Mr. Bachmann?"

The butler referred to him by his real name, of course. Karl was only known as Anders Hagstedt in his most profitable enterprises, which included any number of ways to traffic humans. Bachmann was easily one of the most powerful

men in the industry.

Karl had taken a big risk by having the prostitutes available at the ski club when his real name was attached to the business.

However, it was beyond profitable, and he made sure not one man would cross him. Every man allowed to indulge in

his fantasies at the lodge resort was well aware that his own reputation could be damaged if word got out that he was screwing sex slaves.

Karl only allowed the elite as well as easily bought men know about his special amenities. Local heads of law

enforcement, government officials, famous actors, singers, even billionaires.

Karl chose men with power and money—and usually men with wives—to be introduced to the delicious girls he

rotated in and out of his personal businesses. Any man whose reputation could be easily smeared if word got out about his activities at the club was seduced in one way or another into the downstairs pleasure arena.

"Have my Lamborghini prepared and brought up to the front door," Karl finally said to the butler. "Bring me my driving coat. I will not need the chauffeur." I
have very important business contacts to meet.

"Immediately, sir." The butler bowed his way out of the room.

Eighteen years ago, when he was thirty-three, Karl had purchased his mansion in his Swiss homeland with earnings

from the ski lodge and chocolate factory his parents had owned. The hefty insurance payment and inheritance courtesy of his dead parents had been an excellent bonus.

How convenient it was that they had died in the car accident in Zurich. His parents had been so ... tight with their money that they hadn't shared their wealth with him. He hadn't been able to touch it until the mysterious accident, when their brakes failed on an icy road in the middle of a snowstorm. What a shame.

Karl smiled as he moved toward the opposite end of his glass-walled suite. The enormous windows were always kept

open during the day, the glass allowing him incredible views.

His ski lodge and chocolate factory now served to launder money he made from his most brilliant enterprises. The

beyond-lucrative business that he ran under the name Anders Hagstedt.

Now at fifty-one, as Hagstedt, his human trafficking rings had made him a billionaire several times over. He preferred forced prostitution of females over trafficking children, women, and men for manual labor. However, both industries had their places, and both earned him not only millions but also respect throughout the world of men and women in

the business.

Along with that respect, he had cultivated a deep-seated sense of fear within anyone who might try to fuck with him.

Karl preferred to be as hands-on as possible with his enterprise and traveled the world. His key sex trafficking

operations were in Beijing, Moscow, Stockholm, New York City, and Daytona, Florida. He'd chosen Daytona for the

sheer enjoyment of it. He enjoyed the climate, the atmosphere that was so unlike any other place he conducted business in.

His business primarily prostituted girls, but occasionally young men. Although most of his clients preferred females, some of his buyers' sexual proclivities included young males.

He glanced toward the paddocks and smiled when he saw his own boy slave busy combing down Hagstedt's most

prized Lipizzaner stallion. He kept the boy busy with chores when he wasn't in the mood for the male to suck him off or literally be his piece of ass.

Karl's penis hardened, and he rubbed it through the fine wool of his tailored slacks. Perhaps he would call the boy to one of his private rooms before his drive. Maybe the two females he owned as well.

His slaves didn't have names. They were material items among his belongings that included his collections of ancient Roman artifacts and his stable full of champion Lipizzaner stallions and mares. His stallions gave the most

magnificent Airs Above the Ground performance, an incredible work of art.

He didn't have to worry about his human possessions trying to escape. Karl had ordered his men to murder the boy's

father when the boy attempted to escape, shortly after Hagstedt had first chosen him from a fine crop of newly